Evermore
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Why did Eurus "vivisect" Sherlock in order to force that particular release code—without even planting explosives in Molly's house? Could it be that Moriarty had his own separate agenda—and decided not to make the same "mistake" twice?
1. Chapter 1

_This story is dedicated to Team7Extra on youtube who created a Sherlolly music vid to the song "Evermore" from the new "Beauty and the Beast" film, and it inspired me like mad. I hope you enjoy it._

 _I use lyrics from "Evermore," "If I Can't Love Her", and "Beauty and the Beast."_

VVVVV

 _Why did Eurus "vivisect" Sherlock in order to force that particular release code from both their lips—without even planting explosives in Molly's house? Could it be that Moriarty had his own separate agenda—and decided not to make the same "mistake" twice?_

VVVVV

Evermore

Chapter One

 _I was the one who had it all_

 _I was the master of my fate._

 _I never needed anybody in my life._

 _I learned the truth too late._

John nearly broke the door of his house down as he charged inside, feeling Sherlock soundlessly follow him. Instantly, John's gaze darted through the small entryway and warm-colored sitting room. The lights were on, the furniture seemed to be in order—

"Mrs. Hudson?" he shouted, out of breath. "Mrs. Hudson, where's Rosie?"

"Oh, my goodness—right here, dear!" Mrs. Hudson came scurrying down the hallway, wearing her dressing gown and packing Rosie on her shoulder. The baby wore her pink pajamas, her wispy hair tousled—and at the sudden racket, she burst into howling screams.

It was music to John's ears.

"Oh, good God," he gasped, reaching out and pulling her from Mrs. Hudson and into his chest, even as the baby shrieked. "Oh, dear, my dear, dear…sweetheart…" John sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head against her, then bouncing her as he stepped through the room. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you. Shh, don't cry. Daddy's here."

"What on earth happened?" Mrs. Hudson cried. "John, your hair's all wet! Sherlock…Sherlock, you're completely white. Come sit down!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I'm quite well," Sherlock said faintly.

John's eyes opened and he turned to find his friend.

Who in fact did _not_ look well.

Sherlock, wrapped in his dark coat, stood just inside the doorway, staring down at nothing, his lips grey. He held his phone limply in his right hand. John stopped pacing, though Rosie still cried, and frowned.

"Sherlock, I think she's right," he realized. "You ought to sit down."

"I don't need to sit down," Sherlock answered, though no more firmly, and glanced toward the kitchen.

"You you…want something to drink?" John asked, carefully starting that direction. "When was the last time you've eaten?"

The edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but he didn't look at John. And he didn't answer.

"Okay, c'mon," John ordered. "I normally wouldn't offer this to a drug addict, but at times, an old remedy is best. I've got some brandy in here. Give us a minute, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh…all right…?" Mrs. Hudson stammered, but she didn't follow. John strode through into the little kitchen and pulled open a cupboard, still holding the tearful Rosie tight to his chest. He pulled down the bottle of brandy and two glasses and set them down on the counter with noisy _clinks_. He heard Sherlock's slow tread trail after him onto the linoleum. Rosie finally quieted to a whimper, sucking on her thumb, and leaned her head against John's neck. John didn't say anything as he opened the bottle and poured just a little into each glass. Then, he picked one up, turned around, and held it out toward Sherlock.

Sherlock stood on the other side of the table, as if studying its surface, his brow dully knitted. And he still held his phone.

John's grip on the glass slackened and he lowered it.

"What's the matter?"

Sherlock just swallowed.

"What is it—what's happened?" John asked softly. "Did you get a text? Did Mycroft text you?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John put the glass down on the table, his heartbeat starting to pick up again—though his pulse had pounded so frantically all throughout today that one more adrenaline rush might make him sick.

"Is it Eurus again?" he whispered through his teeth. "Is it? Because if it is, I swear Sherlock, I'm going to—"

"It's Molly."

John stopped. Sherlock's dark voice had barely been loud enough for him to hear.

"Molly?" John repeated. "Molly—is she okay? What happened?"

Sherlock swallowed again, lifted the phone just slightly and tapped it open, then held it out toward John.

John's heart did hammer against his breastbone now. Trying not to wince, he reached out and took it, and turned it so he could read the text.

 _I can't seem to get hold of John, or Mycroft._

 _So please tell John that I've talked to my mum, and she's_

 _invited me home for a bit, so I won't be able to baby-_

 _sit Rosie. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Maybe_

 _a long time, I don't know. I've had vacation time piling up._

 _I'm leaving tonight. Tell Mycroft too, even though he_

 _probably already knows._

John read the text three times before lifting his eyes to Sherlock. But again, Sherlock avoided his glance.

"Is this…a bad thing?" John asked carefully.

Sherlock shifted, reaching out to barely touch the back of a chair with his fingertips.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Do you think it is?"

"I don't know either," John said frankly, shaking his head. "Depends on if you meant it or not."

Sherlock's head came up.

His grey gaze shot through John's. A thousand things flashed through Sherlock's eyes and his mouth tensed before he ducked his head again and stared at the table.

"I'm right, then," John said quietly. "I knew I was. Eurus actually did get the truth out of you."

Sherlock closed his hand around the back of the chair. John watched his friend carefully.

"How long?" he asked. "How long has it been like that? Since you've known me?" he guessed. "Longer?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. Otherwise, he didn't move. John took a step closer to the table.

"So why exactly have you treated her like rubbish all these years?" John narrowed his eyes and put the phone on the table. "Or did you just find out this afternoon, like the rest of us? Because if you _didn't_ , Sherlock—if this has been there since the beginning—then you've bloody well done your best to convince everyone otherwise, even me."

"That wouldn't be so difficult," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah, apparently not," John shot back. "Because that's not how you treat people who matter to you."

Silence fell—and John felt Sherlock hesitate.

"I didn't want anyone to know," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry, what?" John pressed, leaning forward. "Know what?"

Sherlock rubbed his thumb back and forth on the top of the chair.

"That she mattered," Sherlock muttered. "I didn't want anyone to know." And again, Sherlock didn't move his head, but he looked up at John. Open and bright—with some sort of fear flickering like a distant candle.

"Including her, I suppose?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I did tell her."

"Yeah, when?" John demanded. _"Before_ today."

"When I came back from dismantling Moriarty's network." Sherlock's eyes blinked open and his mouth tightened again. His tone quieted. "I told her that Moriarty had overlooked her entirely. He thought that she didn't matter at all to me—but in the end, she'd been the one who mattered the most."

John just stared at him, then let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Wh—and what's the poor girl supposed to do with that?" he wondered. "You didn't exactly follow it with a marriage proposal!"

"She was engaged," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh—and if she hadn't been, you would have," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock twitched away and let go of the chair.

John's mouth fell open.

Rosie whimpered.

"Sherlock, _what_ is going on?" John burst out. "I don't care what emotional complexes you Holmes siblings have given yourselves, but no matter what your brother _or_ your sister say, this kind of thing is _not_ a weakness, it is _not_ a disadvantage, and it certainly is not as complicated as you're making it out to be."

"I can't…" Sherlock started—and his voice shook.

John instantly calmed. He waited, gauging the other man—then tilted his head.

"Can't what?"

"I can't…" Sherlock took a trembling breath. "I can't lose her. John." Sherlock openly met his eyes once more, his eyebrows drawing together. "I can't."

John paused, then nodded.

"I know," he murmured. "I saw."

Sherlock gazed at the phone on the table. Said nothing.

"But the fact is, Sherlock," John said carefully. "You've made life fairly intolerable for her these past months. So, I dunno." He pulled Rosie closer. "You're right. It might not be good."

"So…" Sherlock ventured, slowly sliding his hands into his coat pockets. Still fixedly studying the tabletop. "What's to be done?"

John's eyebrows went up.

"Are you asking me?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

 _"Yes,_ of course I'm asking you."

John snorted wearily and shook his head.

"Look…I'm really the last person you ought to be asking," he confessed, shifting his hold on Rosie. "Just a bit ago I was telling you to phone Irene Adler, remember?"

The skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened. John looked at him evenly. But the back of his throat hurt.

"And I'm also…" He paused, then took a steadying breath. "…not quite the best authority concerning the treatment…of a woman."

Sherlock's brow knotted, and he found John again. John felt that strange, terrible pain start gnawing at his breastbone again. Rosie let out a tired, choking sob.

"All right, I cannot bear it," Mrs. Hudson suddenly burst into the kitchen, her slippers slapping against the tile. "You told me to wait, and I have, but I've overheard so much—and not a bit of it make sense, John!" she cried. "What's gone wrong? What's happened to Molly?"

"A lot has happened to all of us, Mrs. Hudson," John answered, trying to draw a deep breath. "It's been the day from hell, without exaggeration. And it'll take some working through, that's all."

"I'm going to Baker Street," Sherlock suddenly announced—picked up his phone and started toward the door.

"What? Wait—why?" John jumped, then tried to head him off, but he'd already passed Mrs. Hudson and entered the sitting room.

"I can't think here," Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he made for the door.

"You can't think there, either, it's blasted to bits!" Mrs. Hudson called after him.

"Don't follow me, John," Sherlock ordered.

"Look, I am _not_ leaving you alone right now," John barked after him, handing Rosie off to Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock answered, opening the front door. "Because as your friend, I ask you to."

"Not a chance—not with what's just happened—"

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft, and he leaned against the half-open door, his head down. The street lights outside caught on his profile. "What if I promised to be back here by two a.m., or you'd be free to call Mycroft?"

John stopped, grinding his teeth.

"Why do you want to be alone in a blown-out flat?" he demanded.

Sherlock's head lowered further. He gripped the doorknob.

"Please, John," was all he said.

John glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who fervently shook her head. Bracing himself, John faced Sherlock again and pointed severely at him.

"Two a.m.," he stated. "One minute after that, I'm bringing Mycroft _and_ Scotland Yard down your throat."

"Agreed," Sherlock answered shortly, swept through the door and shut it in half an instant, leaving the other three standing alone in silence.

 _I'll never shake away the pain._

 _I close my eyes, but she's still there_

 _I let her steal into my melancholy heart_

 _It's more than I can bear_

VVVVVVVVVVVV

 _I've completed this story, so I'll keep posting chapters if you like it and you want me to keep going! Let me know!_

 _-Alydia_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for the enthusiastic response! I hope you continue to like it!_

 _This chapter is dedicated to Maegan, who makes an excellent tag-team sleuth._

 _VVV_

Chapter Two

 _Now I know she'll never leave me_

 _Even as she runs away_

 _She will still torment me, calm me, hurt me,_

 _Move me, come what may_

 _Wasting in my lonely tower_

 _Waiting by an open door_

 _I'll fool myself she'll walk right in_

 _And be with me forevermore_

The text had come too late.

Several hours too late.

Hours during which Sherlock had been transported to his old country home, awoken from a drug-induced stupor, deduced the horrifying truth about Redbeard; clawed his way through the charred ruins of the house to plead with Eurus; then plunged shoulder high into freezing water and knee deep into his little friend's bones to rescue John Watson—then been fished out by Mycroft's men and witnessed Eurus being taken away by police…

But Sherlock hadn't been handed his own phone until they were on the helicopter back to London. And when mobile service had finally returned, he hadn't felt the belated buzz, of course—in the helicopter.

In fact, he hadn't thought to look at it at all until they were walking through John's front door.

And during those same hours, Molly had received no reply from him whatsoever. She had doubtlessly packed all her things, and left for Devonshire.

Sherlock stopped walking.

The stream of London nighttime traffic flashed and growled all around him, headlamps gleaming off windows and wet sidewalks.

He suddenly frowned. His feet had halted of their own accord.

He twitched, his heart skipping a beat as he fought to orient himself—

Looked up and to his left.

The white, illuminated façade of St. Bart's Hospital towered beside him. He slowly tilted his head back, his gaze wandering across the intimately-familiar windows and walls, up to the very roof…

His mind echoing with the metallic sound of doors opening and shutting; with microscope lights flickering, a fleeting voice murmuring helpful snatches of information; deft, delicate hands leaving papers or vials exactly within his reach; a soft, winsome presence ebbing and flowing with his moods, his needs—anticipating him before he could ask, answering him before he could speak, listening when he didn't say a word.

Seeing him when no one else was looking.

Some sort of shuddering sound pulled through Sherlock's chest—he felt it far more than he heard it. His vision blurred and he frowned, blinking it clear, only absently feeling something hot trail down his face.

He shook himself, turned and started onward—but his vision blurred again and he had to stop. His legs went weak.

John was right—he didn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything.

Sherlock swallowed, then buttoned his coat and pulled the collar tighter, braced himself and walked on.

An hour later, he found himself on Baker Street. He finally spotted the red awning of Speedy's ahead of him, the muscles in his shoulders and back starting to ache. He halted in front of the black door and stared at the brass numbers. The glint of the metal didn't look right. He glanced up at the dark, shattered windows of the rented flat.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out his jingling keys, stepped up the stoop, then put the right one in the lock and turned it. Opened the door and ventured inside.

The hollow entryway echoed with the creak of the hinges and the noise of his footfalls. He shut the door behind him, and made his way up the dark, squeaky staircase.

The air grew colder as he ascended, the scent of burned wood and carpet filling his mouth and nose. He absently trailed his fingertips across the dated wallpaper, listening to every note the wood issued as he tread upon it. Like a song he'd memorized long ago, and then forgotten to notice, even though it kept on playing. Until now.

He hesitated on the threshold, cautiously glancing through the blackened room.

Street lights cast a strange, eerie illumination across the ruin. Furniture lay upended, pictures fallen from the walls, the knickknacks on the mantel smashed on the burnt rug and tumbled into the hearth. Blasted books and torn papers strewn like autumn leaves upon the scarred floor.

And the filing cabinet directly across from him, beside the shattered table. It lay on its side.

Sherlock crept into the flat, unable to pull his attention from that cabinet. It had been struck and toppled by the collapsed tabletop.

His shoes crackled over shattered glass. Slowly, he knelt down in front of the cabinet, his jaw clenching. The top drawer sagged open like a broken jaw.

He reached out and, wincing, carefully slid it out further. The metal screeched in protest.

A black camera phone tumbled out and banged against the floor. He glanced down at it, then pushed it out of the way. It skidded off into the dark corner. Proceeding by feel alone, he put his hand inside, and his fingers touched a cardboard box about the size of a brick. It wasn't nearly that heavy, though.

He stopped. His heart skipped a beat. He could already feel that the cardboard had been severely bent.

He closed his hand around it, easing it out of its place, even as he lowered himself onto one knee. At last, he pulled it free.

A half-crushed, simple brown cardboard box. Cradled in both hands. He hadn't kept the perfect red wrapping paper, nor the shiny bow, nor the note taped onto the outside. In fact, he distinctly remembered ripping it apart and tossing it in the bin before flipping the box lid off—and feeling the earth stop on its axis.

This time, he didn't treat that lid so casually—though it barely sufficed to cover the top of the box, anymore. He gently lifted it away, and tilted the opening toward the light.

On a bed of white tissue paper lay a large, gorgeous, antique magnifying glass with a brass frame, and a polished mahogany handle carved in the shape of an old-fashioned pipe. And lying upon the lens was a note, written in small, purposeful strokes and red ink:

 _A proper magnifier for the greatest detective who ever lived._

He read the note five times, re-memorizing every pen stroke, re-deducing what graphology told him about the writer: her tentativeness, her optimism, her intelligence, her level-headedness, her gentleness…

With two fingers of his right hand, he delicately lifted the note…

The light glinted across the glass.

Completely shattered.

Utterly broken, beyond any repair. In fact, if he would try to pick the magnifier up, the glass would shower like snow around his feet.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped. He suddenly stood up, his throat choking shut, and brought the box with him. He took two steps backward, staring down at it.

He swung around and searched the open door. The empty, open door.

Then stared back down at the crushed glass.

His eyes blurred again. Heat burned down his face, and dripped from his chin. His feet wouldn't move. And the light sparkled against the shards in his hand.

 _Hopeless_

 _As my dream dies_

 _As the time flies_

" _Love"—a lost illusion._

 _Helpless._

 _Unforgiven._

 _Cold, and driven to this sad conclusion..._

 _To be continued…_

 _Still like it? Let me know!_


	3. Chapter 3

_You guys know that wasn't the end, right? The game is still very much afoot…_

 _Enjoy!_

 _VVVV_

Chapter Three

 _I rage against the trials of love_

 _I curse the fading of the light_

 _Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach_

 _She's never out of sight_

Time stretched on, and he didn't note it. He stood in the center of the ruined flat, barely breathing, the stark street light glittering through the splintered facets.

A sound.

Below, in the stairwell.

Footsteps. Light, steady. Calm, but careful.

A woman.

Sherlock's head slowly came up and his eyes narrowed, but his vision unfocused.

Heels. No hesitation.

She only weighed perhaps a hundred pounds.

And darkness swelled into the room ahead of her.

Sherlock didn't turn his head—just shifted his eyes to stare at the door.

She stood upon the threshold dressed in drapes of flowing black. What Emily Bronte would describe as a "wicked slip" of a woman. The figure of a knife edge, with a face white as snow, lips red as blood, and vivid, mocking black eyes. Her dark hair was done up elegantly, every feature as striking as a winter morning. As if she had not aged a day.

"Hello, dear," she said with a small smile—startling the silence in the flat, and confirming for Sherlock that she was, in fact, flesh and blood, and not an escapee from his mind palace.

"May I come in?" she asked, stepping through the door. Sherlock said nothing.

Irene Adler glanced around the room, lifting her eyebrows.

"Love what you've done with the place," she remarked. "Quite _avant-garde."_

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock still did not move—for he sensed her exuding a reptilian calm that crept toward him across the floor like water.

"What, not even up for the exchange of a few pleasantries?" she asked, canting her head. "Well, I suppose you have had a rather trying day."

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

"What would _you_ know…about my day?" he pressed, his voice low and precise.

She smiled at him, drawing nearer. Sherlock fought his impulses, and stayed where he was.

"Come now, it's my business to know when the men who enjoy my company might be in particular need of it," she answered. "Family trouble?"

"No more than usual," Sherlock replied. She smirked lightly and glanced down before turning around and assessing the flat again.

"That may be a slight understatement," she decided. Then, she faced him, searching his face with a saucy, sideways look. "And what about this, then?" she gestured to the magnifier. "Is it from her?"

Sherlock blinked.

"Who?"

"Oh, you know," Irene assured him. "That mousey little thing who likes rooting through the innards of corpses." Irene stood right in front of him, her head tilted back. Her perfume overpowered him. "The one who… _isn't_ standing with you here, right now."

"I don't know who you're talking about," Sherlock replied, fixing his eyes on hers. A slight tremor ran through him.

"Oh, you've mentioned her to me before," Irene assured him. "Molly Hooper—you were going to have her go pick up something from a safety deposit box for me. Such an obliging girl. She'd have done anything for you then, I suppose?" Irene watched him. "What about now?"

Sherlock said nothing—just glanced at the magnifier.

Irene reached up…

And gently touched the skin of his throat.

An electrical thrill shot down through him. He swallowed, and another tremor possessed his frame. He jerked his head and his gaze locked with hers again. But then, she lowered her eyes to his mouth.

"Do you remember when you saved my life," she whispered. "And I asked you to run away with me to India?"

"Of course I remember," Sherlock muttered—his eyelids fluttered as Irene traced his jawline with her fingertips.

"You said no," Irene murmured. "You had to come home to England—You had unfinished business to attend to."

"I meant it," Sherlock told her, even as her eyes captured his again.

"What kind of business?" Irene whispered, leaning up against him. He could feel her breath on his cheek.

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied.

"Oh. Yes," Irene recalled, her nose touching his jaw. "He had promised to burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock's pulse bashed against his breastbone. He lifted his head, sucking in a breath—

Irene gazed up at him—right through him—just an inch away.

"He did tell you," she said. "But did you listen?"

Sherlock's brow knotted as his mind flew.

Then—

A sharp pain stabbed into his left shoulder. Irene closed her hand around his collar, jerked him toward her and kissed his mouth with a fierce venom.

She pulled back, lifting her chin.

"Perhaps you understand it now," she said. "I am the final problem."

Sherlock fell to his knees. The broken glass rained across the floor.

 _Review!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I hope you're still enjoying this story! It really helps and encourages me when you share your thoughts with me!_

 _I hope you like this chapter…_

 _VVVV_

Chapter Four

 _Now I know she'll never leave me_

 _Even as she fades from view_

 _She will still inspire me, be a part_

 _Of everything I do_

Sherlock's heart started racing so fast it hurt—he could feel his unsteady pulse jolting through his arteries. The bottom half of his legs had gone numb, and a haze swept over his mind like a shroud. He'd experienced the effects of this drug before—she'd used it on him the first time they met. But she must have injected him with a lower dose, because he could still sit up…

He blinked hard, several times, trying to focus on Irene…

She crouched down in front of him, lifting an eyebrow, her forefinger pushing painfully into his breastbone.

"Jim didn't want me to kill you," she said. "As usual, he'd rather have you do it yourself. And I suspect you might come close, after this evening—given your obvious lack of control when it comes to recreational substances and your inability to process negative emotion." She frowned delicately at him. "I admit, I'd be sorry to see it. Even sorrier that your heartbreak wouldn't be for my sake."

"What…are you going to do?" Sherlock bit out haltingly, forcing himself to stay upright—though he could barely feel the edge of the box he held limply in his hand. Irene stood up.

"Your sister is a clever woman. I admire her," she declared. "She proved quite effective in uncovering the _actual_ heart of the cold, impenetrable Sherlock Holmes—the one he'd kept so carefully hidden from even his closest friends. _And_ his greatest enemy."

Sherlock's breathing shook. He battled to force feeling back into his legs, to _get up_ …

Irene thoughtfully folded her arms.

"I wish I could say that this wasn't personal, but I would be lying if I did," she said. "I don't tolerate competition. And Jim didn't tolerate mistakes—especially ones he made himself."

Sherlock's eyes flashed up to hers—he could see them, all of a sudden. Black, and piercing.

"You understand, don't you?" she said quietly. "Once she's dead, I'll be free. He made arrangements for this contingency. Free to travel where I like again, without being afraid for my life." She paused. "Even free to rejoin you here, if you like."

Sherlock's lips parted, but he couldn't make a sound. Then, Irene lifted something in her left hand and looked at it.

A phone. Sherlock's phone. She turned and walked it into the kitchen, put it in a cupboard and shut the door.

She might as well have planted it on the moon.

"You're not allowed to call anyone," she said. "I'd rather not have you interfere. Don't worry." She came back into the sitting room. "It'll be done quickly. She won't feel a thing."

"Please…" Sherlock tried, only managing a weak gasp.

"I promise," Irene said, tilting her head and offering a little pout. "I saw the recording. Poor little thing. I felt sorry for her."

"Nnn…" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his heartbeat thundering in his head.

"I'd best be off. Goodbye, dear. Don't take it to heart." She strode toward the door, pausing for a moment on the threshold. "After this is all over, you know how to find me."

Then she was gone. He couldn't hear her footsteps on the stairs—his head had started to buzz, and his vision had gone foggy around the edges. He shook his head once, then shook it harder—

The box slipped out of his hand.

The magnifier toppled out of the box and _crashed_ onto the hard floor. Sherlock's balance swerved. He twisted and fell forward. His right hand landed in the pile of glass.

Pieces knifed into his palm.

His eyes flew open.

And for a moment—

Everything clarified.

He shoved himself back up onto his knees, then crawled forward, taking deep breaths to saturate his brain with oxygen. He clawed through the pile of debris, searching for what had once been lying on top of the filing cabinet—

There. Cold. Heavy.

Metal.

He lifted the gun as blood rand down his right hand onto his cuff. Grinding his teeth and squinting, he flipped off the safety. With shaking fingers and a brisk snap, he checked to see if it was loaded.

It was.

He lunged forward. His elbows landed on the windowsill. Night air gusted through his curls. He panted, fighting through the encroaching haze, scouring the street below him…

There.

There. That steely slip of a woman, that knife-blade of a figure sweeping down the walk, her back to him.

Sherlock leveled his arm and aimed.

His whole body below his waist went numb. Letting out a grinding groan, he braced his shaking left arm on the sill, forcing his right hand steady.

He took a deep, sharp breath through his nose. Bared his teeth.

Sighted down the gun.

His vision went black.

He pulled the trigger.

He couldn't hear the thunder of the shot—but the concussion traveled up his arm before he lost all sensation and collapsed.

 _Wasting in my lonely tower_

 _Waiting by an open door…_

 _I'll fool myself she'll walk right in_

 _And as the long, long nights begin_

 _I'll think of all that might have been_

 _Waiting here, forevermore._

 _To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

_I've had so much fun writing this—thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review and share thoughts with me, I truly appreciate it._

 _Enjoy this last chapter!_

 _VVVVV_

Chapter Five

 _Ever just the same_

 _Ever a surprise_

 _Ever as before, ever just as sure_

 _As the sun will rise_

Sound.

That's what came back first.

But he couldn't distinguish any of it. A river of nonsensical noise bubbled and swam all around his head. Deep, hurried voices answered by brisker, tenor ones. Metallic slamming…

Then motion. Swaying, lifting up and down…

Lights flashing overhead, like camera bulbs…

Finally, stillness. Then deep, surrounding darkness. For what seemed like a long time.

Then…

A high, soft, steady beeping. Off to his right somewhere. He felt warm. He was lying on his back upon softness. His right hand felt constricted, as if bound up…

His head suddenly head swam. A vivid image rose up before him:

A caped woman striding out into the London night, bearing death in her right hand.

His mind thrashed. But his body wouldn't respond. He could feel the whole of it, all the way down to his feet, but he couldn't seem to even move a finger.

But he had to. He _had to._

He _had_ to open his eyes, he had to find out where he was…Where _she_ was…

The beeping seemed to quicken. Then, his eyes moved beneath his lids.

 _Open. Open, open!_

At last—they flickered. Light flooded his vision. But it took seven seconds for it to focus.

A small white room. White sheets and a blanket on top of him. His right hand wrapped in white, too. A man standing at the foot of the bed—wearing far too _much_ white. He was talking.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who sat in a chair to Sherlock's left, right beside his bed.

She wore a sweater with a dizzying, colorful pattern. Her soft, straight brown hair back in a ponytail, with curling wisps loose beside her temples. Her delicate-featured profile cut against the stark background of the room; her long eyelashes, graceful neck, quiet mouth, warm brown eyes…

Sherlock stared at her, fixed on her as she spoke to the man. His breathing unsteadied. He blinked, over and over…

The man in the too-bright coat said something final, turned and left the room.

The woman watched the man go, then glanced down at the sheets, absently working a hem between her fingers with both hands. Dark circles haunted her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

A powerful ache traveled up through Sherlock's chest. Pressure built around his heart, fighting up through his throat, trying to form upon his mouth…

"M…" he breathed, making no sound—a titanic effort writhing through his being, his eyebrows drawing tight together. He managed to draw in just enough breath…

"Molly?" Faint, broken disbelief. Followed by a short, desperate gasp.

Her head came around. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder. She saw him. Her brown eyes flashed.

Sherlock's brow twisted.

He tried again, but he could only mouth it this time, and his thumb twitched.

She quickly scooted closer to his head.

"Sherlock?" she said—his name, in her voice, out loud, into the silence—

Needles of pain danced all down his arms and across his chest.

"Are you okay?" She rapidly searched his face, taking hold of the sheet in both hands and squeezing it tight. "The doctor says you…you were injected with ketamine—it's a temporary paralytic which doesn't usually do much damage, but it _can_ cause nausea and psychosis, are you feeling okay?"

"M…" Sherlock choked, his brow knotting. He gasped again, fighting with all his strength…

His left hand slid an _inch_.

Her eyebrows pulled together too, and she dipped her head.

"They found you in your flat with your hand cut apart—I'd been almost to the train and I heard someone was shot at Baker street and I hadn't heard from John or anybody…" She lifted her face, and her eyes shone as they met his. Her voice lowered to a shaking whisper. "Are you okay?"

"Molly," Sherlock's throat latched closed as his vision clouded and his breaths became rapidly uneven. Hot tears spilled from his eyes and raced down his temples.

Molly blinked. A bewildered tear of her own cascaded down her cheek.

Suddenly, Sherlock's will overpowered the paralysis, and his hand blundered into her arm. She jumped—

He caught hold of whatever bit of her he could, wrapping his fingers through her sweater sleeve—he _reached_ and fumbled—

Fresh tears streamed down his skin as his hand ached to feel her warmth, the soft material of her shirt.

"What is it? What can I do?" Molly sniffed, more tears tumbling—

He snatched up at her red collar and held on, and then his right hand—bound up in bandages— _finally_ responded. He brought across him, trying to catch at her wrist, her hand—

"What's wrong?" Molly asked urgently.

"I…I broke your…" Sherlock stammered, tears scalding his eyes and trailing down. "I broke your magnifier. At Christmas. You gave me…I broke..."

She looked at him in confusion, then shook her head.

"It's okay," she gasped quickly. "That's okay. I don't—"

He tugged on her. Surprised, she fell forward—

He leaned up, searched for a wild instant—his nose bumped her chin—

Then he brought her head down and her mouth onto his.

It wasn't graceful—he couldn't breathe, and the whole earth tilted sideways. But he clenched her collar with white knuckles while his palsied, lacerated right hand tremulously came up to touch her ear, the side of her neck…

Her mouth was soft. Just like it looked. And he could feel the warmth of her radiating into his cold skin. The real, _living_ warmth.

The muscles in his neck gave way—he had to sink back to his pillow—but he held on tight to her, tasting salt, _making_ his hurt right hand slip behind her neck…

Sherlock broke free to gasp in a breath, his ribs panging. His shaking grip still bound her there, his lips ghosting across hers. He could feel her trembling.

Again he leaned up, though he could barely manage it. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to hers, and his nose to the side of hers.

He felt her fingers run through the curls at the side of his head—and he yearned toward her.

"Stay?" It was all he could get out. His strength failed him, and he fell weakly back, searching helplessly for her face…

It clarified before him. Solemn and tear-stained. She nodded hard.

"I will."

"Promise," he breathed.

"I promise," she said, unsteadily stroking his hair away from his brow. "Always. Always, always."

Sherlock sighed. His eyes drifted shut. He felt her lean over him again, felt her lips brush his eyebrow.

"I love you." He sensed the words press soundlessly against his skin—and burn a familiar path down to his heart.

Then he sank down into a peaceful abyss, Molly's fingers interlaced with his.

VVV

John Watson almost dropped both cups of coffee.

"What—he _shot_ her? Irene Adler?"

"Right through the back of the head, apparently," Mycroft stated, gesturing on ahead of him as he walked. John forgot how to make his legs work for a moment, then hurried after Mycroft down the long hospital corridor.

"And this was _while_ he was drugged," John realized. "So…shemust have done this to him."

"Of course. You told me yourself that she'd used this particular debilitating concoction on him before," Mycroft glanced over at him. "The question is, what would have driven Sherlock to do this to _her?_ As you well remember, Irene Adler became the focal point of an obsession on my brother's part—enough that her loss had the both of us fearing that he would spiral into another series of potentially-deadly decisions."

"Sherlock has shot people before," John pointed out. "Magnussen, for one."

"And what was his incentive then?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"He was threatening Mary," John answered. "And when that American man attacked Mrs. Hudson—you remember. He threw him out a window."

"Yes, I do remember," Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"And we both knowthat's the only reason Sherlock would do a thing like this," John insisted. "To protect somebody he…"

John trailed off as the two men stepped into Sherlock's hospital room…

To find Sherlock asleep. And Molly Hooper sitting in the chair beside him, resting her upper body on the bed—also sleeping. Her forehead pressed to Sherlock's temple, her nose touching his cheek. And Sherlock's left hand laid upon hers—on his heart.

Both of them had been crying.

"Good lord," John whispered, a slow light dawning in his mind. "Molly."

Mycroft didn't say anything. John finally tore his attention from the two on the bed and glanced over at him…

To see what looked like the faint traces of a smile upon Mycroft Holmes' mouth.

"Brilliant deduction, Dr. Watson," he replied, just as quietly. "And of course, if _you_ have made it, then the secret is truly out."

John turned back and considered his friends again, watching the way Sherlock breathed deeply and evenly in time with the heart monitor, his features free of tension; his long, strong hand covering and resting upon the gentle fingers of Molly Hooper.

 _Tale as old as time_

 _Tune as old as song_

 _Bittersweet and strange_

 _Finding you can change_

 _Learning you were wrong_

 _I truly hope you enjoyed this story! Let me know what you think!_


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